Watson and Wilson: Closet Edition
by WuHaoNi
Summary: John and Wilson end up in a literal closet during a medical conference. Hilarity naturally ensues. Done for the LJ sherlockbbc fic community kinkmeme.  House Crossover.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or House.**

**A/N: **Exams coming up and I'm writing fills. Life is good

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The closet had seemed like a good idea at the time. It was unpredictable, completely unlike John, and he was betting on that fact to keep him safely away from Sherlock's prying nose. Sherlock, who insisted on coming to a medical conference even though he didn't fancy any of the presenters' lectures. John sometimes thought he had a six foot shadow lurking behind each step he took, and thought he was doomed to a life of constant companion to a possessive genius child.

The first chance John got, he had slipped away, leaving Sherlock to snipe heatedly with the scruffy man sitting next to them. He was certain that it wouldn't take long for the other man to notice his absence, but John could use a lengthy head start. As soon as he was out of the conference area, John combed the corridors, looking for an out of place hiding spot that was just obvious for Sherlock to overlook.

_Right, _John said to himself, _like Sherlock ever _overlooked_ anything._

He pulled open the first closet he could find and...

...there was someone else in it.

"Er…hi," came the floppy haired man who was sitting on an overturned bucket.

He had an American accent, and wore a nice suit and tie. Definitely not the kind of bloke who usually sat around in closets. But what kind of blokes _normally _sat around in closets, anyway.

John smiled back politely, but he was really hoping that the man would finish whatever he was doing and leave. So that John could take his place.

The man looked up at him hopefully. "Do you need a mop?"

He offered it up and John shook his head.

"I was looking for a hiding place, actually."

"You can join me...in the closet..." the man offered and then frowned. "Did I really just say that out loud?"

John stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He stood awkwardly in the tiny space, noting that his breath seemed abominably loud. He closed his mouth and tried to breathe in through his nose. _Nope, not happening_.

"So..." the man said, twiddling his thumbs. "What are you in for?"

"In for?" John asked tilting his head to the side. "Oh, right. Just needed a little space to think."

"Me too," the man said immediately.

They fell silent.

John was just wondering if he could make a hasty exit without seeming too rude, when the man decided to continue their conversation.

"What's your name?"

"John Watson," he replied, holding out a hand. If they were going to be proper about this, he might as well show some civilised manners.

"James Wilson."

They shook hands, and Wilson smiled faintly. "Do you want to sit down?"

He motioned to the bucket next to him, and John agreeably took up residence.

"You're here for the conference," John said.

"Yeah, how did you know?"

"I didn't. I was asking." The words were halfway out of John's mouth before he realised he had been doing what Sherlock did naturally: assume information about other people and then throw it back in their faces. He winced. Some bad habits were not worth picking up.

A faint line appeared between Wilson's eyebrow. "Oh. Well. My friend and I are only here for a couple of days."

"Have you seen any of the sights?" John inquired politely. He was curious to see what the man thought of London, and yes, he was proud of his city.

Wilson grimaced inexplicably. "Haven't had time. My friend isn't really much for that. But I heard Trafalgar Square is great."

John suppressed his automatic correction of the man's pronunciation and nodded. He could sympathise with those types of friends, and in fact, couldn't imagine Sherlock sight-seeing at all. The thought of his friend gawking with the tourists during the changing of the guard was really quite inconceivable.

"Do you go there often?"

John snorted and Wilson looked at him curiously. "Sorry...it's just, my mate and I spend a fair bit of time on work. This is the first real holiday I've had in some time."

"A lot of patients?"

"A lot of dead bodies," John said honestly and then realised what had just come out of his mouth. He added hastily, "Not that I kill my patients..."

"You're a coroner," Wilson assumed.

"Right, no," John said, puzzled by Wilson's assumption. "I consult for the police. Well, my friend consults for the police. I help. A little."

"And you do this in your spare time?"

"I do my job in my spare time," John said, rather pleased with himself.

Wilson peered at him intently. "Interesting. I think House would like to meet you."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Disclaimer: I don't own House or Sherlock._**

**_Now that finals are over, and my holiday has started properly, I can update!_**

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"House?" asked John curiously.

"My friend."

Anyone else probably would not have noticed the slightest hesitation before 'friend'. But for John, who had been struggling for a word to call Sherlock that was not 'friend' precisely, because they were both something more and something less. Colleague was safer than partner, which suggested a whole host of other issues that John didn't want to admit—like his apparent flexible sexuality.

John smiled wryly, and thought he understand Wilson just a little bit better.

"What's he like?" John asked, shifting a little to face Wilson.

"Brilliant. Frustrating. Mostly frustrating and juvenile."

"Are you sure his name isn't Sherlock Holmes?"

John's phone buzzed and he rolled his eyes. "Speaking of."

He had been wondering how long it would take Sherlock to collar him once again. As usual, the man showed no self-restraint.

_Come back now. SH._

_No. JH._

_These juvenile antics are beneath you. SH._

_I'll find you. SH._

_The game is on. SH._

John sighed gustily and thumped his head against the back of the closet. Never a moment's rest for those around Sherlock, who could and would run on stubbornness and nicotine alone.

"Problems?" asked Wilson, sounding sympathetic.

"You could say that," said John, closing his eyes.

"I recognize that look." Wilson smiled gently. "I've _worn_ that look."

"It's nothing," John insisted.

He was a bit leery of opening himself up to a total stranger, no matter how friendly the man seemed to be. And yet he had shot a man for Sherlock. Whom he had only known for barely a day.

_John, m'boy, you trust too easily._

Not something his therapist would've said, but John recognized the quality in himself even if she didn't.

John met Wilson's brown eyes. The other man looked at him curiously.

"Right, so I was invalided home from Afghanistan..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own House, MD nor Sherlock.**

**A/N: Thanks to everyone for reviewing! Sorry to disappoint some of you, but this story is not going to be very long; I just wanted to write a short vignette about John and Wilson's chance interaction. :)**

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The doctors at the conference are idiots (except John, who has sometimes shown a glimmer of intelligence, but even so has a long way to go). Sherlock had wanted to stand up and tell the man at the podium that he was wrong, but John had reddened and said That Would Be Making a Scene. Which Sherlock hadn't quite understood (because wouldn't the doctor _want_ to know his error) but John had said in no uncertain terms that it would be A Bit Not Good.

As such, Sherlock had taken to muttering, 'Wrong' under his breath with such force that the man next to him looked over and asked if he had 'taken his meds'. Sherlock had frowned, explained that he presently did not require medication, and began cataloguing every aspect of the man's appearance.

Beginning with the American accent.

American. _Obviously_. Not married. Flaunting social norms, judging by his clothing. Limp—_not_ psychosomatic. Constantly in pain. Previous addiction to prescription painkillers, evidence of some sort of intravenous drug use, most likely morphine. Here under duress with a male friend, judging by the Versace cologne.

Easy deductions, ones that he could do in his sleep. But he doesn't care much about finding out about the man.

He wants to know where John is.

Sherlock knows from experience that texting John when he's in the loo is Not Done. It is Rude (which Sherlock doesn't care about) and Makes John Angry (which Sherlock does care about, because an Angry John is less likely to do things for him). So he suffers through conversation with the twit next to him before he realizes that John isn't coming back.

This is a problem.

He likes to keep track of John's whereabouts at all times, _not_ because he is possessive, (which Sherlock knows John thinks) but because John's statistic likelihood of becoming a hostage again is around 64.5%, give or take a large anomaly in events. John has become an invaluable resource to him. He needs to keep him close.

Sherlock pulls out his phone and whips off three messages in quick succession, before standing and scanning the room for short, blonde ex-Army sidekicks.

None to be found.

This must be remedied.


End file.
